Darkest Disaster
by mellowenglishgal
Summary: When things go wrong for Disaster, they really go wrong. After the earthquake, Kane returns to Budapest, and meets her, The One, the light to his dark, the calm that tames the beast. Please read!
1. 01

**A.N.**: I've been reading a lot lately, but I'm not sure where this idea came from. For Kane, the much-underappreciated, over-concussed keeper of Disaster.

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**Darkest Disaster**

_01_

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On a scale of one to screwed on the Disaster Scale, Kane was on about a "Beyond Fucked." Fonged, vivisectioned, cauterised, burned, de-limbed, lashed.

The Lords had thought getting him out of Budapest, while temporarily giving them a reprieve, would also give Disaster room to cool off.

Big mistake.

Big.

Huge!

The first boad he'd stepped on had sunk. The propellors of the first plane he'd gotten near had spun off before he'd even boarded, killing one of the airstrip workers. Car tyres exploded; exhausts blew up.

Lucien had finally flashed him away, in the hopes that Disaster might find peace somewhere.

Japan had been a huge, catastrophic—nigh _apocalyptic_ mistake.

But by the gods, Kane had never come close to this sort of euphoria before. Pompeii certainly. The _Titanic_. The two mortal wars had had Disaster purring. September the eleventh? Spontaneous orgasm.

But even that had been nothing to the ecstasy he now found himself drenched in. A natural earthquake, a tsunami spreading to other islands, and the threat of a nuclear leak?

At that moment, buried under rubble, Kane was grinning, eyes dazed and unseeing, the only thing factoring gin his mind the excruciating pleasure Disaster took in everything tumbling around—and on—them.

He would be bedridden with guilt-induced sickness later, but for now…he just lay there, half-buried, wholly satisfied for the first time in weeks, Disaster's need to wreak havoc sated for the moment.

How long he lay there, lapping up the emotional ambrosia, he didn't know, but it was too soon when an altogether recognisable and decipherable accent caught his attention and grated on his nerves.

_Five more minutes_, he felt like whining, as the warriors' voices filled the now-still air.

He could remain in this city for months and Disaster would be satisfied with the damage it had unleashed on the economic capital of the East. People would be rebuilding for months, _years_ maybe.

_Just go, leave me here, let me—_

"Kane! Oh, Gods! He's buried—hang on, man!"

_Huh_, Kane thought dimly. _Sabin. But he _hates_ flashing with Lucien…Don't let him find me, don't let him find me, just let me enjoy—_

"Kane!" Rubble shifted, weights lifted off him, light penetrated his ecstasy-drenched mind. Disaster sighed in rapture, and Kane stared dazedly upward as several familiar faces crowded over him.

"Oh, Gods—!" Lucien. Grunting. Moving rubble.

"Kane, are you alri—?" Strider. Anxious.

"He's _smiling_!" Maddox. Disbelieving.

A pair of strong hands seized him and more shifted the rubble from his body; he let the strong hands haul him up, grinning, teetering when his ecstasy-weakened knees wouldn't hold his weight.

"He's enjoying this destruction!" Lucien. Tense.

"Disaster is. Kane will be overcome with grief as soon as Disaster gets agitated again." Sabin.

"Look at him!" Maddox. Bewildered now.

"We'd better go, before we attract attention. That building should have crushed him to paste."

"Yes, because nobody will notice half of Japan being destroyed by a huge earthquake."

"Shut up, Lies." Sabin. Impatient. As ever.

"Get him back to Buda, Lucien. Disaster should be satisfied by this for a while yet." Strider.

"How can you be certain, Strider?"

"We've seen this before. Athens, Pompeii; the Great Fire of London; Krakatoa Volcano; Challenger shuttle; 9/11; Hurricane Katrina—we've seen this before."

"Disaster caused all of those?" Lucien again, surprised.

"Well, he certainly helped. Better find some ambrosia; Kane will be hurting when he's himself again."

_Hurting, Strider?_ He'd rarely felt better.

* * *

"_KANE_!"

"I'm _sorry_!" Kane cried, the halls still trembling from Maddox's roar. "I was just so _hungry_."

"The oven _exploded_!" And a good deal of the kitchen, too.

"Maddox, it's alright," Ashlyn said gently, gingerly testing her feet to pick a safe path through the smouldering rubble; at least Torin had been able to work the fire-extinguisher.

"It is _not_ fucking alright!" Maddox bellowed, the face of Violence flashing across his own irate features. "He could have killed you—and the babies."

"Danger is the risk of living amongst soldiers, Maddox," Ashlyn said calmly, and Kane's entire body shuddered with overwhelming guilt as he watched her rub her swollen belly.

Babies. His stomach ached, knowing and regretting that if he didn't get Disaster under control soon, he'd have to leave the fortress when Ashlyn's time came. He was a deadly liability. And he couldn't trust himself around immortal adults these days, let alone _babies_.

"And anyway, you told me you lost it a lot just before you met me," Ashlyn continued, puffing as she sank into the one unharmed chair Kane had managed to procure for her. She shot him a grateful smile. "Kane can't help what Disaster does any more than Torin can help being unable to touch others. And besides, I wanted the kitchen redone anyway."

Kane knew Ashlyn was only saying these things to appease Maddox, who looked like he was one unwise word from Kane away from tearing him a new one with his fangs. Kane couldn't blame him, of course; if he had a little woman like Ashlyn, eh would move heaven and earth for her.

Kane winced, reaching out and pinching a smouldering ember that had drifted to Ashlyn's shoulder before it could burn her. She smiled, even as one of the frying-pans drifted up and walloped him around the head with an echoing bang.

Sighing heavily, he stumbled a step and shook his head, multihued hair flicking in front of his eyes as he beat the dizziness away.

Surveying the destruction that had once been there kitchen, Torin chucked the fire-extinguisher aside, and smirked. "I guess we're having takeout tonight. My vote's on Thai."

Kane let out a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders. Disaster was cackling delightedly at the mess it had caused, disregarding the possibilities of casualties. His friends.

"Sorry," he mumbled, taking in the extent of the damage. They would need the room entirely refitted. "I'll…fix it."

"You'll just end up destroying something else," Torin shrugged easily.

"I don't understand," Maddox scowled, but Ashlyn had taken his hand and his voice was gentler. "Disaster was so…_dormant_ for the last fortnight." Didn't Kane know it! He'd watched a film every evening with the rest in the entertainment-room, without anything going haywire.

Japan had given him a high that had lasted all of the week after, and half the next after that. But Disaster had started itching again on Thursday, and furniture had begun splintering, ceilings crumbling, pipes rupturing, windows cracking. He had barely finished repairing the damage to the wooden staircase that had collapsed beneath him on Friday, almost flattening Legion.

A lover of games, even in human form, Legion had taken Disaster's tantrums to heart and decided to lessen the blame placed on Kane's shoulders by wreaking some havoc for herself, the pet! But, the best intentions and all that, Aeron had blamed him, thinking Kane had encouraged her. As if anyone could make Legion do anything she didn't want to!

"I've never seen Disaster so agitated," someone murmured, the voice making Kane want to walk out of one of the blown-out kitchen windows and dash his brains out on the jagged rocks far below. Cameo. Even after all this time, he couldn't get over the sorrow in her voice.

"What the hell—?" Strider blurted, skidding to a halt behind Cameo in the doorway, surveying the damage.

"Huh," William said thoughtfully, eyes glittering but expression bored. "Brings back memories of what Cronos did to my last digs! I hope this was Disaster."

"My fault," Kane sighed heavily. "I'll go."

"But what about your dinner?" Ashlyn called, as he shouldered past the other Lords.

"Not hungry," Kane murmured dejectedly. _I'm starving!_ Ignoring—_trying_ to ignore—his rumbling stomach, Kane shuffled dejectedly up to his room.

What was left of it, anyway.

Usually, he suffered the short-circuiting of a stereo fuse about once a week. Phones lasted a day, and light-bulbs were stored in a dresser to replace ones that shattered spontaneously. To risk lighting a candle was laughable… He remembered London.

Even though he'd been locked up here, hundreds of miles away, Torin had really helped Kane do a number on London in the 1600s.

Kane was used to things going quite literally to hell around him. He sometimes slept with an old London Bobby hat, to avoid concussing himself while he slept. But in recent weeks…no matter what he did, Disaster was just…insufferable. He paused in the doorway to his bedroom; the door hung crooked off its hinges, the lock still usable. There wasn't much inside the others would care to pilfer for their own enjoyment, not even sticky-fingered Anya; most of his possessions were in some way broken. Tucked in a corner of his warzone of a bed-chamber was the only piece of furniture still unbroken—because it had been mended and replaced numerous times; his bed, mounded with pillows, weighed down with feather duvets; one had ruptured the night before while he slept, and feathers drifted across the floor, over the detritus of his bedroom. Clothes, CDs, books, piled up; amongst them were scattered numerous weapons. He shoved the magazine of a Smith and Wesson off his pillow and plopped down onto the bed.

With a huge _bang_, one of the legs collapsed; Kane's ankles flew up to his ears as he was flung backwards onto the mattress; a plume of feathers rose, flying for his nose; he spat out a mouthful and bellowed, "_God dammit!_"

Rage of the kind Maddox suffered from coursed through him; the last straw had him diving off the bed, then turning back to it, letting out all his pent-up anger and frustration on the bed, kicking the shit out of it.

"We really gotta get you a girl," someone clucked, and Kane whirled, unaware that he'd had an audience for his tantrum.

"What're you doing here?" Kane panted, ignoring Paris's comment.

"Heard you bellowing bloody murder You broke the bed again, huh," Paris said knowingly.

"And not doing anything I should _enjoy_ doing in bed, either," Kane grumbled, scrubbing his hands hard over his face, then through his hair, removing a feather.

"As I said," Paris quipped, "we gotta get you a girl."

"At this point, I think she'd be struck dead by lightning just for stepping near me," Kane said, glancing up too late, the tumbling chandelier catching him hard on his left shoulder, tearing his last good t-shirt and drawing blood. Paris winced in sympathy. Kane rolled his shoulder back into the socket, ignoring the pain.

"You know, I'd go out onto the grounds if I didn't think I'd set off all Torin's traps at once," Kane growled impatiently. Usually, Disaster was content with a shattered light-bulb, a crumbling ceiling. Now? He had to try and annihilate entire _countries_ before he'd be satisfied—for ten days. He'd seen the Hungarian newspapers—Danika was trying to improve her Hungarian and insisted immersing herself in the language was key—and knew the death toll for the earthquake was estimated at over twenty-thousand.

Two thousand people had died for every day Disaster lay preening in the recesses of his mind. Two _thousand_. The only thing Kane was proud of, with regards to Japan, was the fact that a Hunter outpost located in Sondai had been pulverised—and all the Hunters within it. But otherwise…well, he'd had to stomach the guilt of worse death tolls.

Torin spread disease; he caused devastation. Disaster revelled in the destruction of lives. Lives, buildings, nature. Anything.

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**A.N.**: Please review!


	2. 02

**A.N.**: Please review! This chapter is dedicated to _CHITTLE0915_, because you reviewed first! Having received and read _Darkest Secret_ yesterday (yes, I'm a fast reader!) I was swept back into the world of the Lords of the Underworld…however, I brought parts of the _Immortals After Dark_ with me via Regin the Radiant and Declan Chase's story, _Dreams of a Dark Warrior_, and I'm beginning to merge the two worlds together in my mind, so bear with me if I mention characters who belong to Kresley Cole's novels. Also, I'm rewriting my Strider story, and hopefully I will make myself continue writing Aeron and Serafeim's story, because they deserve it. Though, with the rewrite of Strider's story, I might have to rewrite Torin's as well… So much to do…! Enjoy!

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**Darkest Disaster**

_02_

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Paris sighed, shaking his head, the strange noises echoing through Kane's bedroom-door throwing him off. He hadn't seen his friend since the last blow-up doll had been tossed out, gored with three-dozen knife-slashes nine days ago. Well, Paris had thought at the time, if his friend was going to hole up in his room to spare everybody else the crumbling ceilings, he might as well have something to keep him occupied while he lives in self-imposed monkhood.

Apparently the blow-up doll had only served as a reminder of the last woman Kane had bedded—a little blonde piece of Bait dangled directly under Kane's nose, whom he had—inadvertently—killed when his demon lost control at his rage and despair.

Paris had stopped by to place a tray of food outside Kane's bedroom door, knocked but received no response, and shuffled back downstairs to the entertainment room, where most occupants of the castle were usually to be found when not screwing like rabbits.

The girls had taken over the television, thanks to Scarlet and her fearlessness (the other girls were happy to let Paris sit and watch his porn movies and play his dirty mud-wrestling video-games to his heart's content), and were watching a film, while Amun, Gideon and William played snooker, Strider, for once hanging out in the fortress since finding his mate, Màiri, keeping a tally on the chalkboard as he played solitaire, Gilly working on her homework at the table in the corner; she had stayed over for dinner, once again surprised that the usually-playful Kane was nowhere to be found.

"I'm worried about Kane," Paris announced on a sigh, displacing Anya effortlessly and claiming her (_his_) spot on the sofa with another sigh, this time at the view of the television. Sex scene. _Lovely_.

"Why?" Ashlyn asked, a bowl of ice-cream, peanut-butter and sliced bananas resting against her enormous belly between her swollen breasts. Paris eyed the ice-cream, and Ashlyn smiled as she offered him a spoonful of ice-cream and banana.

"I was walking past his room earlier and swore I heard a steam-engine," Paris said, glancing from Strider to Amun and Gideon.

Strider and Gideon exchanged a look. Amun clapped a hand to his forehead, his eyes closed, shaking his head. Haidee glanced at him, no doubt telepathically scanning his mind for what that meant.

"Oh no," Cameo said, and they all winced at the sorrow in her voice.

"Kane's playing with his trains," Strider said heavily.

_And he's using the diesel_, Amun signed.

Ignoring an insipid comment of Anya's, Paris unfolded out of the sofa as the other men left the room; they strode upstairs, to the furthest reaches of the castle before the rooms became outdated and uncomfortable, still maintaining a safe distance from other bedrooms so Disaster could have no side-effects on anyone but Kane, they converged on his bedroom-door, which still hung askew on its hinges. Pausing to listen, the warriors sighed.

"The _un_covered bridge," Gideon remarked, tutting, as what sounded like a full-size steam-train tooted its whistle, chugging around Kane's bedroom.

"Dead Man's Turn," Strider said, straining to listen. Paris glanced at his friends, wondering how often Kane did this, and what the significance of the trains was.

"Come on," Strider said. "Just let him be." Returning to the entertainment-room, Paris again reclaimed _his_ seat on the sofa beside Ashlyn, where she was resting her swollen ankles on a pillow atop a footstool, and the boys returned to their snooker game.

"Where's Kane?" Gilly asked, glancing up from her algebra.

"Playing with his train-sets," Strider said, shaking his head. "We won't see him for a little while."

"He's been locked in that room for two weeks. It's a wonder he's still alive," Danika remarked.

"Well, you keep sending food up, so something's alive in there," Paris remarked.

"He just needs to feel like he's needed around here," Scarlet said, and they all turned to look at her. She raised her eyebrows expressively. "He's always set aside because of the trouble his demon causes."

"Not our fault!" Strider said. "Torin doesn't leave his bunker because he knows what'll happen. So does Kane."

"Doesn't mean either of them like being separated from the group just because of which demon they keep," Scarlet said.

"He's not going to risk leaving his room, not while Ashlyn's still in delicate condition," Paris said, affectionately rubbing Ashlyn's swollen belly. _Two_ little babies he could teach all his wicked ways to! Finally, he had a use for all the knowledge and insight he had gained into the minds of women over the millennia! At least _one_ of the little beasties Maddox and Ashlyn were spawning would be male. Otherwise they'd be on Amber Alert _all_ the time, being horrifically overprotective of little daughters. Maddox was already sickeningly overprotective of Ashlyn, in such a way that Màiri couldn't be in the same room as them without inducing hives.

"And not after what happened in Japan," Danika added quietly, and they all shifted uncomfortably.

"Oh, come on, you all know that wasn't Kane's fault," Scarlet said, glancing around with wide onyx eyes. "For an earthquake of that magnitude, Disaster would've had to shift Teutonic plates, not just the surface of the earth."

"What we think doesn't matter," Strider spoke up. "Kane thinks it was his fault. He'll get over it in a little while."

"This is so _totally_ like before," Gideon said, shaking his head. "Disaster has _always_ been this out of control before."

"That's true," Strider said, the uncanny ability, which they had all gained with Lies in their company, to smoothly decipher Gideon Speak. "Kane hasn't had such little control over his demon since the dark days." _Athens_, Paris said, stifling a shudder. _Block it out, block it out_… They had all done things they weren't proud of back then. But damn them, they had paid their penance. Why couldn't the fucking Hunters just let them get on with their lives, as humans had for millennia, polluting the earth with rubbish dumps and global warming, gas-guzzling American trucks, Asian mass-production factories, and hunting rare animals to extinction?

Had _Paris_ invented coal, fired up the Industrial Revolution that had coloured the world black with soot? Was it Strider's fault third-world nations were whipping-boys for consumerism-driven capitalist nations like America? And was it Amun's fault that a baby died every three seconds in the slums of India and Africa from starvation?

The Lords took care of their own.

Why did humans consider kindness an afterthought after self-preservation? Better to fill your own belly than give up a juicy Bacon-Double-Cheeseburger to give the money to funding Plumpy'nut distributions to little babies so malnourished their little tummies ballooned like Gideon's black-and-white footballs?

_Shouldn't have watched that Red-Nose Day video_, Paris chided himself. He and Torin had watched it together the other night, streamed from the English BBC channel, and Torin had siphoned money from one of their many accounts to donate to the cause. Reminded him of Bob Geldof and Live8; it wasn't Christmas unless he had heard "Do They Know It's Christmas Time At All".

_Think about something else_, Paris sighed, glancing around. Nothing. For nearly an hour, he sat watching the girls' television-programme, a DVD box-set Torin had ordered in from England so the girls could understand it, and when he couldn't take it any longer, he glanced over his shoulder at William.

"Club?" he asked. That was all he needed to say. William nodded, excitement sparkling in his eyes. They were so like-minded, it was fantastic. Except, while Paris was called the sex-god and his promiscuity blamed on, well, Promiscuity, the others ridiculed unabashed William for being a slut. "I'm gonna go see if Kane wants to come out. Maybe he can blow off some steam."

"Take something to cheer him up!" Strider called. Paris couldn't tell if it was advice or a warning. Either way, he grabbed the box of "Big Cherry" chocolate sweets that Kane hoarded whenever he knew Lucien had flashed one of the Lords to America to pick up the can't-live-without food items the Greek Contingent had grown fond of during their sojourn in the New World.

Heaving a sigh at the sound of Kane muttering to himself, the chugging of Kane's clockwork trains, and the scent of cigar smoke lingering on the air along with the familiar smell of burnt hair, he knocked sharply on the door, rattled the handle and pushed open the door, meeting resistance almost instantly. Through the six-inch gap between the door and the frame, he spied Kane, his multihued hair dishevelled under a slightly askew antique train-driver's hat, the end of a Cuban cigar glowing in the darkness.

"Permission to enter the station?" Paris sighed. One of the clockwork trains tooted loudly, and Kane barely glanced over his shoulder.

"Granted." Paris pushed his way into the bedroom, his enhanced vision adjusting to the darkness permeating throughout the room. One of the loveliest rooms in the castle, Disaster had made its imprint on Kane's surroundings, and, much like the Sherlock Holmes character Kane admired—one of the few _modern_ heroes Kane admired—there was stuff _everywhere_. Antique furniture lined the walls, which had once been papered with hand-painted silk, yet some of the pieces appeared listing to the side; one of the bookcases had been felled completely, Kane's clockwork train-set set up around, through and over the heaps of books that had been scattered by the fall. Paris watched as one of the clockwork trains rounded a sharp bend, tooting loudly, and hurtled past Kane, where he sat cross-legged with the controller.

"Kane, do we have to have the discussion about you accidentally blowing up your legs again?" Paris asked. Around Kane, it was astonishing if something _didn't_ end up being blown up or spontaneously shattering.

Usually Paris would have been content to let his friend deal with his very literal demons in his own way, but the girls were worried about him dying alone up here and stinking out the place with his rotting corpse, and _he_ was worried that Kane was going a little insane. He had had to hide the ambrosia store that he had hoarded since their eviction from Olympus, solely because Kane, in the aftermath of Japan, had taken to spiking alcohol with vast quantities of the heavenly drug. It was rare for him to act that way, Strider had said, but still, this wallowing in self-loathing and guilt wasn't good for any soul, not even the soul of a man bound to the demon High Lord, Disaster. Closing the door behind him, Paris strode into the room, his steps uncertain due to the detritus covering the once-gleaming parquet floor. Striding to the other side of the room, he took hold of the curtains that seemed to have been hoisted back into place after ripping from their hangings and flung them wide, revealing the set of two plain ceiling-high windows.

"Argh!" Kane yelled in pain, flinging himself into a shadowy corner where the light couldn't yet penetrate. There came the sound of several heavy objects falling over, another yell from Kane, and the tinkle of breaking china. Paris strode over to him, where he sat huddled with his train-controller and cigar, the hat knocked from his head onto the floor next to what had once been a teacup.

"Can I see that?" Paris said, reaching for and yanking out of Kane's hands the train-controller. He set it down on one of the many cluttered worktables, which was littered with scraps of paper all decorated with splotchy pen-and-ink drawings. It never ceased to amaze Paris just how much _stuff_ Kane owned; there were knickknacks everywhere; pictures; books; vinyl LPs; bell-jars; shadow-boxes filled with butterflies; palettes spread with half-dried splotches of paint; little trinket-boxes; rare prints; a metronome; an antique apothecary's box; spools of yarn; the chipped mother-of-pearl handle of a knife; a dented ancient Colt pistol; and any of a thousand now-priceless trinkets from the past, each one of which would have sold for a fortune at Sotheby's.

"You know, it's been three months since you helped us out," Paris said, frowning at the whistling noise now coming from the fireplace; he saw the old-fashioned copper kettle—which glowed as bright as a fire in itself, Kane had left it over the fire so long—and, picking up a glass nearby and sniffing it to check the contents, chucked the liquid over the smouldering fire, extinguishing it. Striding to the other set of curtains, he heard Kane muttering, "Jesus, gently, gently, be gentle with me, Paris."

He wrenched open the second set of hangings, which disclosed a beautiful little alcove of stained-glass windows and a built-in sitting area, the upholstery tufted as if someone had rent their claws through the fabric, exposing the stuffing, which plumed into the air when Paris disturbed it. Kane yelled in pain, another something shattered in the corner of the room, and Paris sighed.

"You're pathetic, man. Don't you think it's time you stopped moping about in your bedroom like a mortal teenager?" he asked, rolling his eyes as Kane crawled over, dressed in nothing but a very tattered pair of jeans, his other clothing long since shredded by Disaster's mischievous destruction.

"I can't but agree," Kane groaned, dragging himself over to his bed, which was a mound of duvets, feathers drifting over every surface nearby. "Unfortunately, Disaster says otherwise."

"Case file," Paris said, brandishing a manila folder at Kane, who grumbled, reaching for it; half the contents spilled out though his hand firmly clamped the pages together, and he sighed, sifting through them on the floor. "Torin put it together."

Kane's brow puckered as he squinted in the unfamiliar light, peering at the documents. "Amazonia?" He glanced up at Paris, who shrugged.

"Apparently there's some sort of mystical convergence going on in the Amazon."

"Green Hell," Kane murmured, as if to himself. He frowned. "Mystical convergence? Torin can't trace magic, even if he is plugged in to the entire universe from his foxhole."

"The contacts Màiri set him up with, the witch Mariketa," Paris said, shuffling debris away from his feet, folding his arms across his chest. It had been a surprise that Kane knew half if not most of the immortal friends and allies (or had at least heard of them) of Màiri, Strider's woman. She lived in a beautiful Garden District mansion in New Orleans, a cesspool of hedonism, and Paris's new favourite playground.

Kane, alone of the Lords, had made the effort to immerse with other beings of the supernatural sort in a sojourn to New Orleans a few years ago. According to him and Màiri, they called themselves factions of the Lore, and there were all kinds; Lykae; non-hellish demons; covens of mercenary witches; nests of Furies; battle-vicious Valkyrie; sirens; lusty nymphs; demon-angel kobolds; centaurs; noble fey (the inspiration for mortals' ideals of elves); Sorceri; vampires; flesh-eating Wendigo; Incubi; Succubae; shape-shifters, and many other supernatural beings that spanned more than just the Greek subculture of immortal beasties. Kane had spent some time in New Orleans—before the ordeal with the ruptured levies—and had given Torin as much information as he could on contacting several factions of the Lore friendly to him, while Màiri put him in contact with yet more immortals whom Torin could use for information on searching for the other Lords. For a price. According to Màiri, Paris had heard, most Lorean factions would respond to requests only after a hefty paycheque had been discussed. It was lucky the Lords were older than even most immortals, had hoarded their wealth for millennia, and could afford to live in the very epitome of luxury for the rest of eternity.

So Torin had paid something called the "Animal House", a coven of witches in New Orleans led by Màiri's friend Mariketa the Awaited, to scry for possible leads on any of the demon High Lords Cronus had given him a list of. _Intolerance, Selfishness, Narcissism…wonderful_, Paris thought. The list went on, some seven faceless demons they had been set in charge of finding. _My demon's sexiest of them all!_ They had to track down and capture or coerce these other Lords, demon hosts created from prisoners of Tartarus, of which three had been Titans; the king and queen, and the queen's illegitimate daughter.

The bedroom-door burst open and there she was; Scarlet, illegitimate daughter of Rhea, keeper of Nightmares, and so delectably beautiful Promiscuity purred with desire for her polished-rubies lips. Delicate and fierce, her silky black hair fell around her face; her onyx eyes were incomparably lovely. Dressed all in black and strapped with weapons, she was _Lara Croft_ embodied, a warrior's wet-dream, and adding to the image of perfection, she bore a heavily-laden dinner-tray.

"Tea, Kane," she said, swiping an arm over the surface of a table and scattering knickknacks and debris to the floor.

"Is it poisoned, nanny?" he asked suspiciously, watching over her. They had all lived through Nightmares' forays into their minds of an evening; several of them had woken nursing very real wounds incurred _during_ their nightmares. Gideon didn't apologise for it, but Scarlet was still reining in her demon. Apologies from Scarlet would probably only happen if she had any of the Lords on the threshold of decapitation in their dreams, and even then, grudgingly.

"There's enough of _that_ in you already recently!" Scarlet remarked tartly. Paris smirked, as Scarlet reached out to rearrange several things in a curiosity-cabinet like the one Paris remembered purchasing in the 1790s.

"Don't touch!" Kane said quickly, surging toward the curiosity cabinet and arranging everything perfectly again. "Everything is in its proper place, as per usual…_nanny_." Scarlet arched one neat dark eyebrow and caught Paris's eye; sighing, she sauntered out of the room, closing the door with a sharp snap, and Paris sighed.

"Kane, as your friend—you have been in this room for two weeks, I insist, you have to get out!" he said emphatically. He expected moping like this from Torin, but the dude had every excuse to be suicidally, morbidly depressed. He guessed Kane did too, in his way; the guy was sometimes too dangerous even to allow near a battlefield, and the Lords all knew how useless they felt whenever they were forced to sit on the sidelines while the others went to play with knives and guns.

Clambering into one of two worn armchairs by the plain window, surrounded by clutter, numerous carved side-tables and stools, a small etched silver teapot and Moroccan glasses perched precariously on the leather-topped Moorish table, Kane sighed dejectedly, "There is nothing of interest for me, out there, on Earth, at all."

Paris sighed, watching his friend with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

"So you're free tonight," he said, and Kane sighed, shrugging. One of the little colourful Moroccan tea glasses tipped over and shattered on the floor at Kane's feet, sending several tiny shards of glass into his bare toes.

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**A.N.**: Please review!


	3. 03

**A.N.**: I figured this story is due for an update!

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**Darkest Disaster**

_03_

* * *

_Oh __wonderful; __just __what __I __need. __William_, Kane thought with an aggrieved grumble, glowering as Anya's buoyant pet sashayed into the room. Less house-trained than an alligator, with more testosterone than a bull, the ego of a god and the same sense of personal boundaries as a curious Lykae toddler, William was possibly the most annoying immortal Kane had ever met.

And he partied with a mad Valkyrie, the _Proto_-Valkyrie, Soothsayer Without Equal, demigoddess Nïx the Ever-Knowing. Otherwise known as Nucking Futs Nïx, an oracle with unparalleled powers of foresight, who distributed information like a miser did their gold.

Kane had dealt with insufferable Sorceri enchantresses, overly sexually-aggressive demonesses, tipsy witches, and battle-hungry Valkyrie, but no immortal had ever before grated his nerves like nails on a chalkboard like William. The guy was okay, in small doses, like Regin the Radiant, a particular favourite Valkyrie from the New Orleans coven, but Regin had Lucia the Archer as a partner in crime.

William had _Anya_, least-favourite consort to one of the Lords.

Considering Gwen came with a handful of Harpy sisters, that was saying something.

"You gal-pals done chitchatting about Britney's latest faux pas?" William said, ignoring Kane and addressing Paris, his new teammate in bedroom-athletics. It wasn't enough that Anya kept William around as if he was a beloved Labrador or something—Kane loved dogs!—but they hardly needed Paris encouraging him, taking him out to Budapest clubs and sharing lovers.

"Give us a second," Paris said, casting Kane a look that he didn't miss.

"Come on, man; we're heading into town. I've got several disreputable ladies expecting me, and they don't mind sharing," William grinned, his eyes sparkling.

"Or searching for treasure, either," Kane said drily, glancing at the immortal warrior Anya the Annoying insisted on keeping as a pet, who, according to several sources, had a tattoo winding around his torso to the 'family jewels'. The only person Kane knew who could instil paralysing fear into the black, selfish heart of William the Beloved, brother to Lucifer, was Màiri the Mauler, Strider's wife, and she was in New Orleans.

"So come on; drag a brush through your hair, put some slap on; let's go," Paris remarked, sounding as if—

"Did you just tell me to put some makeup on?"

"Yeah."

Kane sighed, shaking his head. A photograph-frame fell off the shelf near him and smacked him in the temple, bouncing onto the duvet. "You are the _oddest_ person. Anyway, I can't get changed. These jeans are the last piece of clothing I have that isn't…" He was going to say torn, but noticed the slashes at the knees… "Burned or covered in debris."

"No sweat; chicks dig the dishevelled look," William said, sweeping his eyes over Kane. "However, you might just take it to the extreme. Is that _soot_ on your cheek?"

"Most likely," Kane chuntered. He'd burned his eyebrows half off two days ago. He knew why most mortals feared pyromaniacs as a scourge. He couldn't be trusted near an unlit fuse, let alone a live flame. The only reason he'd lit a fire in the first place was because the radiator had ruptured and he'd had to bleed it; the water had gone everywhere, and then a great slab of the mosaic tiles on the bathroom wall had smacked him in the head. The next day he'd dented the side of the bathtub when he'd fallen over a knitting-needle and the shower-door had cracked because the shower pipes had burst.

"Borrow some stuff from us," William shrugged.

"Come on, we've gotta get you laid!" Paris exclaimed.

"Why do you care if I get laid or not?"

"Told you already, dude, you don't want it enough. Maybe you wouldn't be so grouchy all the time," William remarked, smirking.

"You'd be grouchy too if you kept getting concussed every other half-hour," Kane grumbled, rubbing his head, where a conspicuous lump shot pain through his head at touch.

"Come on, you're coming out," Paris said. "Don't make me let Promiscuity loose on you."

"Planning on pimping me out?" Kane muttered.

"I reckon we'd get a few thousand for him," William said to Paris, who nodded in agreement. Kane rolled his eyes.

"I hope she likes lightening," Paris smirked, and Kane recalled what he had said a few weeks ago, about the first girl he would come in contact with most likely getting struck by lightening just for approaching him. Dragging Kane out of the room, they stopped outside Paris's door long enough for him to delve an emerald-green silk shirt and a pair of boots from the wardrobe.

"Thanks," Kane grunted, shrugging the shirt on as he stuffed his feet into the boots, buttoning up the shirt.

"I think Ashlyn's going into town tomorrow; she can get you some new clothes," Paris said. "Anyway, that shirt's not really my colour." Paris spoke lazily, but he jangled the car keys and there were faint lines of strain around his striking blue eyes. He needed sex to survive; Kane felt it was safest for everyone involved if he remained celibate. But he was tired, and he'd heard the soft chink of hipflasks in his friends' pockets.

Before Hunters had bombed the city and attacked them with immortal children, the people of Budapest had regarded the handful of warriors had retired from active warring as angels.

It was still the word Kane heard most often whenever he dared venture out of the fortress, especially if he was in the company of Paris or Strider, two favourites amongst the mortal women of the city. _And __they__'__ve __never __even __seen __Torin_, Kane thought, as they strode determinedly through the lingering evening crowd in the nightclub neighbourhood.

They didn't pause at the entrance to a particular club. The bouncer saw them coming; no cover-fees either. The unclaimed Lords dropped more cash in one night in these places than these kinds of clubs earned in a week—which said a lot.

Inside, it was far darker, brilliant lights of different colours roving over the walls, drunk men catcalling and groping and flinging their rent-money at the girls dancing on poles and in cages and onstage. A mixture between a vintage burlesque club and an underground bondage bar, the only theme was the level of nudity. Colourfully illuminated windows featured other girls, dancing for enthusiastic audiences. Booths were set up, low sofas, but Paris just sauntered through the club, girls draping themselves over him and William as they strode to the VIP room. Kane lagged behind; one of the strobe-lights faltered. One of the raised cages trembled, the girl inside going wide-eyed. Another shake, and Kane passed, trying to rein Disaster in.

_You __destroyed __Japan; __be __satisfied_, he groused, ducking into the VIP room, and Disaster all but giggled with glee at the mention of the country it had all but decimated. The door smacked him on the arse on the way into the VIP room, and he sighed. _Stay __at __home __and __get __pelted __with __books, __or __go __out __and __terrorise __caged __girls__…_

Reminded him of the slave-markets of old. The only good thing Disaster ever did was rupture the slave-caravans, provoking the slaves into rebellion. _Ah, __Spartacus, __old __friend_, Kane sighed. When Disaster had upended those slave-markets, he could remember taking handfuls of grateful girls home.

Now, he couldn't summon the energy to seduce anyone, knowing Disaster would probably upend the bed or similar before they even got going. It had happened too many times to count.

Paris and William were already half-stripped by their admirers by the time Kane sat, emotionally exhausted, on a sofa by himself.

"Aw, come on, Kane," William pouted. "_How_ can you look _that_ miserable surrounded by so many beautiful women?" Kane attempted a smile, and the women cooed.

"We know how to make you smile," one of them promised with a purr, then to another of the girls, "_Menj __és __kislány_." _Go __and __get __baby __girl_.

"_Kislány_ can make anybody smile," another cooed, as the first, in her little thong and thigh-high boots, sauntered off. Kane had gulped down half the contents of William's hipflask when the first woman returned.

Baby girl?

Kane had expected a sweet-faced blonde in pasties and a pale-pink thong.

Oh, no, _kislány_ was so far from a baby girl, Kane couldn't help but sit up straight and take notice.

It wasn't even what she wore that drew his attention. Her costume, much like the gear the other girls had donned, comprised of inch-wide strips of leather, one crossing her collarbones, connected by two strips to another band that just skimmed across her nipples; a third band caressed her tiny waist, each connected by little silver rings to two straps down her sides, connecting to a glossy black thong; two thin bands of silver-ringed leather hugged each toned, slender thigh; just below her knees; and her upper-arms. She bore a long leather whip, and her hair fell in wildly tumbling dark locks to her waist.

No, it wasn't the leather getup she wore; it was _how_ she wore it, how she held herself, as if she was an empress. She might have been wearing a ball-gown and diamonds; the same unconcern the warriors had had walking through the crowd to the club earlier existed in her. He and the others may well not even have existed, for all the notice she gave them. The confidence she exuded in that leather getup was not from knowing she was completely comfortable in her own skin; it was from a talent of blocking out her surroundings to block out her emotions, her discomfort, her embarrassment.

Mounting the small stage, she just started to dance, completely surprising him. Wearing a dominatrix's lingerie, her wild hair tumbling around her slender shoulders, her face charcoaled and painted red, she could have been a ballerina, every movement so precise, delicate and inconceivably elegant, entrancing.

Yet for all the notice she took of her surroundings, she could have been at home, practicing for a boyfriend in her bedroom.

Kane couldn't keep his eyes off her, mesmerised.

Mouth suddenly dry, he knocked back another shot from William's hipflask, feeling no effects, still unable to look away. He didn't even hear the moans and lusty pants from Paris, William and their girls, because he couldn't think about anything but the weariness he thought he had glimpsed in her eyes, eyes shuttered off from any emotional tell that others could manipulate.

No, her eyes weren't emotionless, he realised, as she stumbled almost imperceptibly, and their eyes met.

He had thought her weary.

It was impossible to deny that her eyes held the bone-tired hopelessness of a person who had seen everything and lost all faith in humanity, suffered so much, and had long ago forgotten how to smile.

He had seen the expression too many times to count, always in the lowest of the low circles of society, the immobile, impoverished. He thought he had seen the worst in the ghettos of the Eastern Bloc, the slums of India and African shanty-towns.

The girl who had strode in with the confidence of a queen was gone in that instant, a broken young woman replacing her.

She continued to dance, and either refused to or physically couldn't make herself break eye-contact.

The glimpse he had had of the soul-sick young woman clenched at his heart, making his stomach ache as nothing else ever had. She danced, on and on, but now it was different. She gazed at him, something unreadable in her once-more guarded eyes, and occasionally, she nibbled her lower-lip, running the tip of her tongue over her lips, and all Kane could imagine was cradling her gentle oval face and kissing her so sweetly, that little tongue lapping at his.

Kane didn't know how long she danced, how long he sat mesmerised by the way her toned, slender body moved, entranced by the little flicks of her tongue across her lips, imagining the colour of her eyes as they widened when he entered her, whether he could clasp his hands around her tiny waist, whether her beautiful breasts would fit into his palms or _just_ spill over, and whether her nipples were a delicate pink or a dusky rose, and how they would feel pressed against his chest and between his lips as he took her any way they could imagine.

"Kane, man!"

Someone thumped his back, and Kane jumped, whirling to glare at William, whose colour was high, the glitter in his eyes pronounced, a hickey throbbing at his exposed collarbone. William grinned, expression the epitome of sated sexual energy.

"We're moving on," William said, indicating Paris, who was gently fending off his women as he zipped his jeans. "Since all you've done is look, not touch, you wanna find another girl?"

_Another __girl_?

Either it was him, or Disaster had just gnashed his fangs. _Another __girl!_

_Me __want_. Kane froze. Usually Disaster was a silent but temperamental presence in the back of his mind, incurring tantrums that gave him concussion after concussion. He had never _spoken_ before.

_Can__'__t __have __her. __She__'__s __human. __Humans __break __so __easily_, Kane thought, and he didn't know if he was persuading Disaster or himself. Either way, he knew he was right. If being paired with Disaster had taught him anything, it was just how fleeting and intangible human _life_ was. At the fortress, he could never relax, too afraid of hurting one of the girls. He would never be able to let his guard down enough to have the same kind of intimacy with a woman as his friends had with their wives.

One tantrum from Disaster and any number of things could kill her. Kane struggled to cover a shiver.

"Come on, man," Paris said, counting out several large bills and laying them on the stage for '_kislány_'.

With a reluctance that shocked him, Kane followed his friends to the door, allowing himself—foolishly—one last look back.

And that was it.

Their eyes met, and their fate was sealed.

It was extremely poetic. Classic, even. Very Shakespearean.

"Tristan beholds his Isolde," Kane murmured, tugged out of the VIP room by an already-impatient William.

It was an hour and another club later that Kane separated from Paris and William, making his solitary way back to the castle, alert for Hunters. It had taken five exploded light-bulbs, a row of shattered liquor bottles, an upended table and the ceiling dumping a chunk of plaster on his head for him to realise that while he had watched _Kislány_ dance, Disaster had been soothed.

As mesmerised by her as he had been.

Paris and William didn't mind him leaving; he had been agitated since leaving the first club. Exploding glasses killed the mood. If anyone could understand that, Kane could.

So why was he walking back to that first club, back to _kislány_, when he knew how frail human mortality was?

If he could see her one last time, if he could just... _Do __what?_ he thought, exhaling sharply as he walked on. _You __know __what __happens __when __you __take __human __lovers_.

Gods, he missed New Orleans. Immortal women were the only way to go. Unbreakable, and not prone to expecting commitment. They didn't mind if the bed collapsed beneath them while they went at it. They didn't care if he had to leave the city for days at a time without calling to attend to the Lords' agenda.

The girls who had earlier worshipped Paris and William recognised that he had accompanied them; disappointed that the others hadn't returned, they nevertheless informed him, when he asked, that _kislány_'s shift had just ended.

Knowing as he did the workings of the underworld of cities like Budapest, Kane crept around to the back of the club, where a few of the girls loitered, wrapped up, smoking cigarettes and shivering, moans echoing from a shadowed corner as one of the girls earned a few extra forint from one of the patrons.

The back door banged open as one of the girls darted back inside, banging shoulders roughly with—_her_. Nearly knocked off her feet by the other dancer, she shouldered a very heavy, oversized bag and strode down the few steps. Bundled up in a heavy black coat, she had donned jeans so old and faded they had to be threadbare. The coat bagged on her, making her look frumpy, aided by the ill-fitting jeans, undoubtedly by design. The red lipstick she had worn had been removed, but her incredibly thick, voluptuous hair still tumbled around her shoulders, and something glinted in her closed palm as she approached a dark alleyway.

Kane stalked after her, not certain whether he wanted to speak to her or just…just _see_her. He had been down streets like these before—bringing to mind Victorian London in the height of the opium frenzy—and was horribly surprised by how quickly the wealth of the neighbourhood deteriorated into veritable ghettos, streets littered with the homeless, the drug-addicted, and the desperate, prostitutes with their backs against tagged walls hoping their johns would finish up early.

The reason for the silver glitter of _kislány_'s palm was painfully evident as he followed her through the dark underside of Budapest, and Kane's stomach turned at the thought of her having to use the switchblade.

* * *

**A.N.**: What do you think? The girl's appearance was inspired by two pictures on a Gena Showalter fan site, originally intended as depictions of Cameo and Sienna Blackstone (_Die __again, __bitch!_); I'll post the links on my profile for you to check out.


End file.
